Not a Creature Was Stirring
by Kaprou
Summary: Tony Stark is targeted for espionage; what do you take from the man who has cybers AND bio-weapons? Peter Parker gets a mysterious invitation that draws him in to the wrong place at the wrong time. And there is no room for bystanders! (Complete)


**Not a Creature Was Stirring**

Mystique looked up, her pale eyes feral. Stark watched her with a smug grin from the other side of the bars.

"I see you've regained consciousness," Stark said, smiling.

Mystique said nothing.

"Sneak in once, shame on you," Stark said. "Sneak in _twice_, shame on _me_."

Her dark face hardened in an expression of cold contempt.

"I do appreciate your services, though I doubt I can afford them," Stark went on, his charm impenetrable. "You are improving my security with each attempt. I've half a mind to let you go and see what else you come up with."

In the space of an excited heartbeat her features lengthened, her hair coiled and twisted like a live thing, her skin's color rippled and shifted, and her shoulders broadened. Stark saw himself sitting on the bunk.

They both smiled the same carefree charm at each other.

"Ah," the Stark outside the cell said, "but I have the button."

He pushed a button on the side of the cell door, and a low frequency pulse rippled through the cell. Mystique let out an agonized cry and slumped to the floor, herself once more.

"Every armor," Stark said, "has its gaps."

Mystique glared at his back as he walked away.

**xXx**

Garrett sat on the bunk, slowly raising and lowering his arm. He just thought about his hand moving; his elbow shifted, his wrist shifted, his hand raised. With the merest thought, he caused his fingers to clench into a fist, then relax.

Cybers. His expression shifted with a thought. He heard Stark approach down the hallway; no one else had that crisp swagger. Garrett slowly stood, and faced the door. He tried on a smile.

Stark strolled in. "Garrett, you're looking positively reconstituted."

"Thank you, sir," Garrett said.

"How do you feel?" Stark asked.

"I don't feel much," Garrett replied with a bulky shrug. "Plastic arms, plastic legs, plastic torso, plastic skull. Not much of me left."

"About eight percent," Stark said, his smile unwavering. "Unbelieveable. You must be uniquely suited, to be so heavily cybered and not just snap."

"Thank you sir," Garrett muttered.

"At least you still have your mind," Stark chirped. "That is more than some people in flesh bodies can claim."

"Yes," Garrett nodded.

"Now Garrett," Stark said with his indefatigable smile, "I'm expecting some visitors tonight, of the corporate espionage variety. If you'd be so good as to stay in your room until it blows over, I'd be much obliged." His smile widened. "Otherwise I'd have to think that your whole reason in coming to me was an elaborate plot courtesy of Nick Fury."

"No sir," Garrett said, shaking his head. "I'm through with those losers. They left me to die in the swamp. If it wasn't for you, I'd be done."

"Let's both try our best to remember that with no regrets," Stark said, mirth dancing behind his eyes. He slapped Garrett's shoulder. "Rest well, my large friend. Tomorrow is a new day."

Garrett watched him go.

"Tomorrow," he murmured to himself, "is a new day."

**xXx**

"You heard me," Stark said to his com unit as he strolled down the hallways in the sub-basement of Stark International's warehouse and laboratory complex. "Reduce the night shift to a skeleton crew."

"But the reports of attempted break ins tonight," Ms. Potts protest. "Surely—"

"Hm," Stark interrupted. "I suppose I could let my well trained security agents meet their demise facing foes they cannot stop. But do you have any idea what insurance would run me? Not to mention severance pay for those that were, well, severed. Wergild is a harsh force in the twenty first century."

"Yes sir," Potts said, her voice subdued.

"And," Stark added, "you're thinking that Mr. Stark just wants to play with his new toy, aren't you."

"Yes sir," Potts said.

"You're right, my dear," he agreed, his smile growing to unbearable proportions. "You're absolutely right."

He snapped the com off and began working through the elaborate protocols between himself and his private laboratory. He headed in to the work station where he developed the least cost effective, most cutting edge designs. He smiled to himself as he considered the possibility that this station produced the clearest expressions of his genius.

"My toy indeed," Stark said, satisfaction suffusing his expression.

Well, that and the three platoons of special weapons teams designed to keep his intruders from leaving alive, should it come to that.

"Spies check in," Stark chuckled to himself, "but they don't check out."

**xXx**

Creed shrugged and yanked at the armored suit he wore. "Me in armor," he growled. "Ridiculous." He looked down the long smokestack.

Grinned.

Jumped.

Even at the top of the chimney, he could feel the intense heat through the suit. As he dropped down towards the incinerator it was as though he was opening an oven. The suit began to melt halfway down the chimney, and when he crushed into the searing flame of the incinerator itself, the suit began to sag off. Blisters bloomed across his flesh; he dared not touch the walls.

The door was another matter.

Gathering every ounce of balance and strength he possessed, he lashed out at the inside of the door to the incinerator. It tore open, sending its latch zipping across the room to rebound from the far wall as Creed tumbled out of the intolerable heat, his flesh searing and burning.

He rapidly peeled the remains of the armored suit off, and he stood in his dark bodyglove, smoking and smoldering in the dim room. He reached over and turned the incinerator off. Smiled. Stepped over the slag of his armor. Far as he could tell, no alarms. Imagine; they didn't expect people to come in that way.

"Should put a doorbell in there," he muttered to himself with a grin. "So I wouldn't have to knock."

He prowled down the hallway, wary and alert and silent.

**xXx**

The face through the armored window was lean and dark and feral, surrounded by a halo of silky iridescent hair. Upside down. As the soldier's eyes widened, the spy's eyes narrowed; the soldier spun on his heel and ran for the door, clawing at his radio.

A muffled crack, and in the haze of smoke it came at him. He whipped his rifle up, but it was torn from his grip by something he did not see, then the lithe spy hopped up over him, and he felt a two-toed foot swiftly and expertly grip his windpipe.

He drew his knife with a rasp of steel on steel, but the other foot caught his wrist. His pulse pounded in his temples for a few moments as he struggled, then his consciousness ebbed.

Trespasser shifted his grip on the light fixture, glancing this way and that, then contracted the muscles in his torso and hauled the unconscious guard up to his perch. His tail teased the guard's handcuffs free of his belt, and the Trespasser handcuffed the guard's belt to the fixture's support.

Leaving the unconscious man hanging well above line of sight, Trespasser stealthed in further.

**xXx**

Peter Parker stood in the shadow of a warehouse, looking across the street and down the block at the entry to a warehouse. Not just any warehouse.

If it was a regular warehouse, it wouldn't need the massive fence topped with loops of vicious barbed wire. Wouldn't need the closed circuit security system along with guards toting submachine guns. Wouldn't need the space, and definitely wouldn't be the back door to Stark International's complex.

Peter pulled the creased note out of his pocket and opened it for the hundredth time.

_Hey Junior,_

_Good times, good memories. Hey, I'm in town._

_If you want to drop by, I'm at 148 Bleeker Circle._

_Having a party Saturday night. Can't miss it._

_Costume party, your fave._

_Be there or be square_

And that was all. The note was on Stark International letterhead, scrawled in an uncouth hand. Peter was uneasy. The note found him at home, through the United States Postal Service, so whoever sent it knew him. Going through the mail system had denuded it of clues that would tell him more.

He wasn't nearly stupid enough to let curiosity lure him into breaking and entering. No way. Nothing to gain, everything to lose.

But if it _was_ Logan, cloak and dagger wasn't his style.

No. Not a chance. No way. Not going in.

A truck rumbled past headed into the complex.

Peter couldn't even fool himself. In a few quick motions he was out of his clothes and stripped down to the mesh that clung to him like a second skin. He tugged his hood over his face and moved. He dropped to his fingertips and toes and almost slithered up to the truck. He bounced up from that position, flipping upside down and tugging himself sideways, clinging to the underside of the truck.

"This is filthy," he muttered. "Reminds me of a school bus seat."

The guards searched the truck, then waved them in. Peter dropped off and rolled up the wall, coming to a rest crouched in a corner of the ceiling. A quick crawl and he was through the doors before they rumbled shut; he was in the motor pool for the complex.

"What am I doing?" he asked himself. "This is exercising? Just because I don't have school tomorrow..." He gave up and shook his head. "The folly of youth."

He scampered along the ceiling and slipped deeper in, easily evading the views of the cameras.

**xXx**

Stark stood facing the faceless armor. He saw the empty eyes, the smooth featureless mask. It might as well be a charming smile. He reached out and reverently touched the steel, forgetting about the microfilters, the modulation integrators, the polymers and fibric lifters, the lens flares and the feedback dampeners, the tiny joints and the gyroscoptics.

"I am Narcissus," whispered Stark, "and you are my mirror." He took a deep breath. "Almost time. Almost."

The lights flickered and went out. A moment later, dim red backups glowed to life.

Emergency power cast Anthony Stark in a whole different light.

"Now," he breathed. He snapped the main restraint on the armor to the off position. "Now, my darling."

Stark suited up.

**xXx**

Garrett snarled to himself as his eyes rolled back. His arm was wide open, wires leading from his wrist to the wall socket where he had torn the panel off to get at the fiberoptic access. His consciousness was moving with obscene speed, parts of his skull chatting with the Stark International security system.

"Security grid beta, off. Security grid alpha, off. External alarm, disengaged." Garrett slapped back into his body and staggered, raising his good hand to his head.

"Ow," he muttered. He flexed, and the wires retracted into his arm, the flesh snapping shut. He stumbled into the hallway.

Tymaz Nine. Not far now. Almost there. He smiled.

The lights were dull red. He heard guards running down the corridor towards him. He pressed himself against the wall by the corner. Two guards ran into view, and he loomed over them.

Before they could react he was moving; his palms shot out and smacked into their helmets. Their heads snapped back and they were airborne, but their spines held.

Garrett bent down over them and took a radio as well as both machine guns.

Headed deeper in.

**xXx**

"Hiya babe," Creed leered through the bars.

"Creed," Mystique said, suddenly breathless. "Are you here to kill me? Or get me out?"

"I'm on leave," Creed replied with a grin. "I'm here on my own recognizance. I think that's the word they used."

"Ah," Mystique said. "Say no more."

"So do I just rip this thingy off?" he asked, gesturing at the electronic panel next to the high tech cell.

"No," Mystique said quickly. "No, don't touch that. They're trapped."

The power suddenly stuttered and died. After a moment of pitch darkness, the emergency power flickered on, and red lights glowed to life.

The cell's energy grid snapped off.

"_Now_ rip the thingy off," Mystique said.

"You got it," Creed said, and he promptly tore the panel out of the wall.

A moment later they were together in the hallway. Mystique gave Creed a quick hug. "Now," she said with a smile that made her teeth gleam red in the emergency lighting, "Let's pick up Tymaz Nine on the way out."

"Uh," Creed said, shifting uneasily. "I just came for you."

"And we're on our way out," she said quickly, putting a hand on his arm. "We'll just swing through the lab. We're in Beta Zone, and Tymaz Nine is in the Alpha Zone, just one level down."

"No way," Creed said, shaking his head and gesturing. "We're going. Now."

"You're saying 'no' to _me_?" she said, settling to one side, aiming a sultry look at the giant.

"Uh," he said. "Uh, let's swing through the lab on the way out."

She dazzled him with a smile. "That's the Creed I remember."

They wasted no more time.

**xXx**

Peter clung to the ceiling looking at the blast door. "Yeah, that's magnetically sealed," he muttered to himself. "Well, looks like the end of the line. I gave it a shot, and I'll just be on my way."

The lights flickered and went out. With a dull click, something gave in the bulkhead. Then dull red lights glowed on.

Experimentally, without really wanting to know, Peter pushed gently on the bulkhead.

It swung open.

"Who am I to defy fate," he muttered, and with that he scooted through the portal and deeper into the complex.

**xXx**

Trespasser glanced over the glowing bank of screens. He saw the Alpha Omega camera; the end in the beginning. Alpha level, Omega clearance. He smiled.

Then he disappeared in a muffled crack and a billowing haze of brimstone.

Kurt stood in the circle of light, looking at the laboratory table adapted to showcase a cylinder, a round tube the size of a film canister. Down one side it read "Stark International" and down the other it read "Tymaz Nine".

Trespasser smiled, revealing small even white teeth and pointed canines. He pulled a small sphere out of his belt and tossed it.

The sphere detonated with a brilliant flash, and the electric systems around the table flared and died. The pulse grenade cleared the way. Trespasser moved to claim his prize.

"Drop it, fuzzball," growled a voice from the doorway, fifty feet away. Trespasser turned to see a hulking brute and a refined woman.

He faced them. "The Project had their shot at Tymaz Nine," he said in his hypnotizing Romany German accent. "Your claim is over."

"Touch that canister and _your_ claim is gonna be over," Creed growled. He moved forward, fast and low.

Trespasser smiled at them curiously, then plucked the canister from its cradle. A muffled crack—

Trespasser screamed, dropping on his back, twitching. Creed pulled up short, and Mystique moved to the shadows.

"What the hell?" Creed said.

"_Simple_," came a voice from the shadows, flowing towards Creed from every direction. "_The pulse-shielded mass displacement system detected a potential rapid mass shift and unleashed enough volts to singe his hair and knock him cold_."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I don't like you," Creed said, crouching for battle. "Come on out and we'll see if I'm right."

"Cover me," Mystique said softly. She glanced around and catfooted up to the canister where it had rolled from Trespasser's senseless fingers. With a smile she knelt to pick it up—

The low frequency pulse was strong enough to vibrate in Creed's teeth. Mystique thrashed over to her back and writhed, making a peculiar squalling. The pulse ended, and she lay unmoving.

"Oho," Creed muttered. "Dirty pool."

"_Controlled molecular instability can be a two edged sword_," the voice said, amused.

"Yeah, my molecules are stable, and my mass aint goin anywhere I don't want it to," Creed said, stepping forward, his boots thudding on the floor. He crouched over the canister and glanced into the shadows. The whole damn place smelled like a factory showroom floor. "Whatcha got for me?"

A gleaming armored figure stepped out of the shadows, not twenty feet away.

"_Raw force._"

Creed's face twisted into a smile.

"_Now_ we're talkin the same language," he said. "Bring it."

**xXx**

Peter slowly shook his head. From his perch on the ceiling, he watched the huge hulking man stalk towards the armored figure. The armor was sleek and elaborate, not a baroque curl anywhere. The upper arms and legs had peculiar suggestions of muscle, while the greaves and bracers, boots, gauntlets, chest plate, plastron, and helmet were all one shaped suggestion of vision and style. Dark eye slits revealed nothing. The knight awaited the beast's approach.

"No sword?" Creed grinned. "This where you call for backup, or are you a dirty spy too?"

"_I am not a spy_," the suit said. "_Pretend I am the Grail's guardian_."

"Not so good at make believe," Creed said. "Let's pretend you're just so much scrap and smear. Yeah, I can see that. Any minute now."

"_Yap yap yap_," the armor said. "_They use you for infiltration_?"

Creed sprang, and the armor's hands snapped up. Peter gasped as a shock of light erupted, and a crack like a sonic boom rolled through the floor. Creed was airborne, sailing back. He flew a good fifteen feet before he crashed to the ground and slid another ten feet, sprawling and breathless.

"Ow," grunted Creed.

"_Neat_," the armor said, looking down at its smoking palms. Each one had a disc, an energy conduit.

"Les," Creed drooled, trying to roll to his feet, "les try dat 'gain."

"_Fair enough_," shrugged the armor. Twin lances of energy zipped out and snapped into Creed's smoking body, lifting him up and hurling him all the way back to the doorway this time. The repulsor beams cracked louder than a gunshot, and Peter began working his way to a different position. Just in case. That was a mean personal arsenal.

Creed managed a drunken retreat, wobbling along the wall, blood pouring off his punctured skin. "Ow!" he grunted. Then he leaped up, coordination returning to him, and caught a pillar. He scuttled up the pillar like a massive lethal monkey, and he looked down.

"Can you climb in that thing?" he hollered down.

The armor shrugged. "_The world may never know_," it said, and it took two steps and leaped into the air. Discs the size of dimes flared all over the soles of the armor's boots. The subtle, flat backpack let out a high pitched whine as it fired up into the air towards Creed.

Creed leaped out at him; the armor opened up its wide beam close range blasts and flayed the skin off his face and chest; skull gleamed. Then Creed smashed into the armor, momentum reduced but not eliminated.

The armor fired its jets, the backpack jets firing too. Creed clung to the armor, squeezing, and the armor rammed its palms into his ribs and opened up with a full power blast.

Creed could not scream; the blast might have killed him, but the power wasn't there. The jets sputtered out, and they dropped.

Creed twisted so they landed with the armor on the bottom. A muffled clang resounded through the room. Creed dragged himself up, his blood sluicing down his legs and spattering across the armor. He could not speak.

His muscles still worked.

Bending down, he picked up the suddenly tractable armor. He cranked back and threw the armor as hard as he could at close range into the pillar. A resounding gong sounded, and the armor clattered to the floor.

"Howzabout I rips er fath off," Creed managed. He reached down and gripped the head. "Tuth to muv th no power. Hevy, innit."

"It speaks! Rolls over! Plays dead!" echoed a voice from the shadows. "But is it housebroken?"

"Not gin," Creed managed.

Then the foot covered in deceptively sleek mesh rammed into Creed's exposed facial bones with the power of a sledgehammer. Creed staggered back, but Peter landed right in front of him and lashed out.

Peter didn't give him a chance. He kicked his knee, hard, then crushed a blow in to his exposed ribs. A satisfying meaty crunch there. Crushed his heel into his throat, and spun with a punch to the torso that knocked Creed sailing, gore arcing after him.

Peter spun, leaping, as the bullets zipped through space after him. He ended behind a pillar.

"Whoah," he said, glancing around his cover. "I'm one of the good guys!"

"Bully for you," purred a smooth voice. "I'm not. Creed?"

"Guth," he managed. "Guth n mnt."

"He'll be fine," Peter reassured her. "Although he hasn't looked this bad since the time he chased that bulldozer; whooeee, he picked the wrong one to catch up to."

"Har har," grunted the blood-smeared cripple. "Laf whil yu can."

"Okay, lady," Peter said. "I'm gonna take your gun now."

There was a clattering slide, and the gun ended up at Peter's feet. He glanced around the pillar.

"I'll keep him busy for you, Creed," Mystique said softly. "Get well soon." She relaxed.

Peter strolled out. "C'mon, you're making me feel guilty about this. You couldn't possibly know, after all. I'm out of your league, lady. Even if you are blue. I'm fast, and fast trumps blue."

"Well then," she purred, "why don't you come to me."

He sprang, but she took the smallest step to the side, just out of his reach. He whipped around in midair and landed turning, so the wicked blade she drew out of nowhere skimmed his back instead of plunging through his ribs. With a twitch he was to the side and facing her, but a sidestep moved her enough to slice a thrust at his face. He easily caught her wrist, but he did not sense her foot lashing down until it drove painfully between the bones of his foot, mashing his instep.

A lesser man would have been crippled, and his grip loosened. She whirled with almost lazy grace, whipping her elbow into the side of his head. He spun free as she slung around low, her leg sweep catching his ankle as he darted back. He landed unsteadily. She was there in a fluid recovery from the sweep, her blade flicking towards his thigh. He slapped it away in time to catch her distended knuckle in the back of his elbow, right in the nerve cluster.

He lashed out with a strike, but she moved just slightly and his fist slashed through her hair as her shin locked with his, her instep against his heel. He was knocked off balance, and he fell and rolled with superhuman speed, popping up in time to deflect her slash.

He knocked it to the side and would have been wide open for the spinning kick that went with it, but his reflexes dropped him under that too, and he zipped web into the ankle she stood on and hopped back, tugging.

She gasped as her ankle whipped out from under her, but she slapped the ground as she landed, channeling the force of the impact away. A quick twist and the lethal knife slid through the thin web strand and she did a kip up, landing in a spring.

"Did I say fast trumps blue?" Peter said, catching his breath. "I meant fast trumps blue and _sexy_."

She smiled. "Charming."

Wrong Wrong Wrong 

Peter's senses lit up, alarmed! He whirled as Creed's fist smashed into his back, sending him flying at Mystique. She neatly sidestepped with everything but her leg, so he tumbled over it and sprawled, sliding, on the floor.

Creed, feeling much friskier, pounced. Peter came up with everything he had, landing a blow square in Creed's chest. Bones snapped, flesh tore, and Creed lifted up off the ground and smashed down on his back.

"Oh look," Mystique said coolly, inspecting the gun in her hand. "We're back to this."

Peter was moving, the bullets lashing in his wake. Then his web zipped out, snagged the gun.

"I told you I was gonna hafta take your gun," Peter said, shaking his head as he tugged it out of her hand.

"Yow," he yelped as Creed loomed over him again. "Bad dog! Obedience school wasn't worth the paper you trained on."

Peter leaped back out of Creed's slashing range. "Bad dog!" he shouted, bounding in. "Down!" He punched him in the eye. "Stay down!" He slapped his ear with a cupped palm, rupturing the eardrum. Creed grunted. "Play dead, dammit!" Peter said, driving a two fisted blow into his upper leg.

Creed connected with a backhand that sent Peter skidding across the floor, but it didn't have Creed's usual power behind it.

"Heh," Peter managed, struggling to rise, "gettn tired, ol man?"

The gun barked, and a bullet slammed into Peter's leg. He screamed as the impact spun him around; he clutched his leg and scrabbled back in one unwieldy thrash of limbs.

Creed was still fast. Peter got one shot in before Creed gripped him.

"Now," Creed said. "Now we done."

Then everyone in the room froze to the slow lethal sound of distending adamantium claws.

"Not nice," Logan said, slowly shaking his head. "That's just not nice."

"hep," Peter said in a small strangled voice.

Logan nodded. "You got it."

"Damn," Mystique murmured, swiftly reloading the gun. "This is _not _good."

Peter whipped both his legs up and crushed a kick into Creed's upper chest. Collarbones snapped and Creed let go. Peter twirled and landed on his feet, favoring one leg. Creed let him go, turning to face Logan.

Logan walked down the short flight of steps from one of the doors that had been sealed. His wild mane of fierce dark hair swept up behind him. His short, hard body was dressed in canvas pants and an undershirt. His claws gleamed in the dim light of the shadowed room. He squared off with Creed.

"Let's dance," he growled, his eyes dark and smoldering with fury.

Creed lowered his head for a moment, and his shoulders sagged. He gathered his strength. Then he looked up, and there was death in his eyes. Logan slowly smiled. This time, Creed got to drop the hammer first.

"You know what, lady?" Peter said, squinting at her. "You are a cool customer. I've enjoyed our little tango. Thanks for playing."

"You think I'm done?" she said, arching an eyebrow.

"Yep. That's pretty much the size of it," Peter said. Then he was moving.

Web plopped across the barrel of the gun, wet and sloppy. As Mystique spun to remove the gun from Peter's line of fire, she felt web snap into her hair. Before she could react, she was jerked off her feet. She hit the floor and web slopped into her shoulder. She rolled as fast as she could, but after one roll she stuck to the floor. Another strand, and another. Webs piled on her as Peter used his devastatingly precise aim to slow her down, then disable her.

"On second thought," he said, "I guess you can keep the gun." Then another layer hissed out at her.

Logan walked towards Creed, shaking his head. "Creed, Creed, as much fun as this little reunion is, what are you doin here? Don't you know better? How the hell did you get away from the Swordbearer?"

"Aint here ta talk," Creed managed.

Logan shrugged. "Come get some."

Creed sprang, and Logan sidestepped, whirling low. Adamantium claws snagged in the muscle mass above Creed's knee and tugged his foot off balance while tearing a chunk of flesh out. Creed staggered and Logan pounded claws through the back of his knee. He ripped free and darted back before Creed's backhand arrived. Then he was moving; one set of claws rammed through Creed's elbow and the other through neck muscles, then Logan spun and tucked his back against Creed as he leaned forward, hurling. Claws slashed free of Creed with a disturbing spray of blood, but the behemoth flipped over Logan and smashed down on all fours. His knees cracked.

Logan lashed out, his claws going through Creed's shoulder muscles. Then Logan jumped back, his claws bright red, blood trailing in the air behind him.

Creed struggled to rise, but his heart wasn't in it. He was racked with agony; so much pain. Too much pain. He wasn't psyched for Logan. The incinerator, then the repulsor blasts and the beating from Peter had worn him down too far. He had not gotten a chance to recover.

"Yeah," Logan said, his voice soft and full of pity. "I guess that's it." He moved to the side, and raised his claws to bring them down on Creed's exposed neck.

"What are you doing?" Peter demanded.

"Just look the other way, kid," Logan said, and his claws lashed down.

Web snagged his fist and yanked him off balance. His forearm thudded down hard onto Creed's neck.

Logan twisted his wrist and the webs sheared through like tissue paper. For just a moment he stared at Peter.

Peter stared back, unmoving. Logan's eyes narrowed.

"I got involved to stop a cold blooded murder," Peter said quietly, gesturing at the armor. "I can't just stand here and let _anybody_ get killed."

Logan let Creed slump to the ground. "If you decide to keep Creed alive, you murder a lot of people, kid. This may be the only chance we get."

"Then we'll have to miss it. There has to be another way."

"Stupid!" Logan growled. "Dance a round or two with him and you'll change yer mind. I'm doing this, even if I have to go through you ta do it. I've sacrificed too much, kid, I'm sorry."

Peter nodded. "I took a beating from him, but that doesn't change my mind. I'm sorry it has to be this way."

Logan flexed. "Your call. Let's dance."

Peter darted in, favoring his wounded leg, and cut loose with a punch. It slammed into Logan's head, a meaty ringing sound, and Logan _took _it. Before Peter could recover, claws flung themselves into his face—

Retracted at the last instant; a metallic thud as Logan's fist smashed into Peter's forehead. Peter's head snapped back, and he stumbled; Logan was a lot stronger than he looked, especially with his adamantium knuckles. Peter reached out and caught Logan's retreating fist with his fingertips.

Calling on all his adhesion, he stuck to the fist and spun. Power flowed through his body and Logan was yanked off the ground and sent sailing through the air.

The short man spun and slammed feet first onto the pillar, then flipped down and landed upright. Peter had caught up to him by then.

Logan popped his claws and slashed, and Peter leaped up backwards, the claws hissing under him.

"Hey Moe!" Peter yelped, conking the top of Logan's head with his fist as he sailed past.

"Hey Moe?" Logan grunted, trying not to laugh. Then he stopped, and his shoulders shook. He threw back his head and started laughing.

Peter stumbled on his bad leg then leaned back on the pillar and started laughing too. They both stood there and laughed, until their sides hurt, until they couldn't breathe.

Logan stopped laughing and stared hard at the door a moment before Peter's senses kicked into high gear—

Logan plowed into Peter as the spray of bullets slammed across where they had been. Peter's acute senses felt every thudding impact of the bullets that smashed into Logan's back as they tumbled. They landed rolling and ended up behind a pillar.

Garrett moved in, low and fast, submachine guns smoking. "Creed, get up," he said, low and urgent. He dropped a rifle and picked up Tymaz Nine where it lay on the floor.

Creed roused himself and crawled over to Mystique.

"Leave her," Garrett said without emotion.

"No," snarled Creed. "She can imitate Stark, be our hostage."

Garrett scowled, picking up the submachine gun he had dropped. "Be quick."

Creed tore at the webbing around Mystique. "When we get that thing out it's gonna transmit," he said.

"I'll swallow it if it does," Garrett shrugged. "Then it will be shielded."

Creed ripped Mystique free of the web. She reared up, gasping. Creed scooped her up in his arms. "You okay, Misty?"

"Don't call me that," she gasped.

Creed grinned. "She's okay. Just like old times."

"Oaf," she managed.

Mystique shifted to a very battered and abused Anthony Stark. The trio headed for the exit, slipping away. The door slid shut behind them.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked, rolling Logan over.

"Fine," Logan said, pulling out a cigar. "Just gimmie a minute to let the sting wear off. Better check on the armor."

Peter gently slapped his forehead. "I forgot about him!" He limped over to where the armor lie in a crumpled heap.

For a moment he let his hyper-alert senses play over the armor, then he reached down and gently undid several clasps. The faceplate slid off easily enough, demagnetized and disengaged.

A handsome aristocratic face was revealed. The injured man was still breathing, barely.

Peter heard Logan walk up behind him. "Stark, you alive?"

The man's eyelids fluttered, then slowly drifted apart. "Logan?"

"I'm here, Mister Stark," Logan said, bending down.

"Dija trip the exit alarms?" Stark slurred.

"You bet," Logan nodded.

Stark relaxed. "Take me to the control room."

"I don't think so," Peter said. "You're in no shape to move."

"Who are you?" Stark asked, his face pale but his eyes shining.

"This," Logan said, putting his arm over Peter's shoulder, "is a friend of mine from way back. He saved your bacon while I was tryin ta get out of the security suite. I damaged some assets on my way over."

"Forgiven," Stark breathed. "You a spy?" he asked Peter.

"No," Peter said, glancing at Logan. "I was invited to this party." Logan grinned.

"I... I don't feel so good," Stark said.

"Give me a hand, kid," Logan muttered.

"I still don't think we should move him," Peter grumbled as he helped pick up the fallen armor-clad warrior.

**xXx**

Creed leaned against the wall, Mystique propped up behind him. Garrett was dispassionately reloading.

"Gonna be a lotta bodies gettn outa this one," Creed mumbled, trying to find the strength to go on.

"Yes," Garrett said softly, cocking the rifle.

Then there was a muffled crack and a plume of brimstone. Garrett spun firing, but Trespasser was too quick for him. He bounded up in the air, snatched the canister, bounced off the rifle barrel, and clung to the ceiling. Then he smiled, and the smile seemed to linger as he teleported out, leaving a white afterglow in the blast of brimstone.

"Gone," Garrett mumbled, staring at the slowly swirling smoke. "The whole reason... gone... just like that..." he quivered on the edge of being pushed too far.

"I got what I came for," Creed said softly, and he felt Mystique rub against him.

"We aren't out yet," she said crisply. "I've been after this thing twice. Third time's a charm."

"Gone," Garrett mumbled...

**xXx**

"Please don't," Logan said softly as Stark flicked the cover off the trigger.

"He stole from me," Stark said patiently.

"He stole the dummy," Logan said. "An he's a friend of mine."

"What are you two talking about?" Peter asked.

Stark looked at him. "The Tymaz Nine canister they all want. It's a decoy, a fake. In fact, it's a bomb. I push this button and a microburst blows away everything within fifteen feet."

Peter felt cold. "Yikes."

"Don't," Logan repeated.

Stark sighed. "I owe you gentlemen my life," he said after a brief pause. He flicked the cover back down.

"What about them?" Peter asked, nodding at the screen. Three generations of the Project's finest were cornered; Mystique, oldest and most enigmatic, next to Creed, the largest and most savage, and in the lead the newest and most technological marvel, Garrett.

"I want to see if they can get out," Stark said, his eyes gleaming. "I want to see if they are as good as they are supposed to be."

"Mistake," Logan said, lighting a cigar. "Corner them and they'll surprise you. So far there's been no killin."

Stark looked at Logan long and hard.

Garrett snapped. He came around the corner, through the tear gas. He was among the security guards. His hands and legs darted out with vicious strength. He was an awkward whirligig of death. He leaped into the masses and yanked off heads, punched through armor, tore out throats. They were too close, too slow for the killing machine he had become. Stark watched in slack jawed awe as Garrett punched through fifteen troops in as many seconds, arming himself with the gun they had been setting up in an emplacement.

"My God," he whispered.

Then Garrett was on the surface. He moved fast, and low, and he didn't miss. The two barricades went down, then the satchel charge took out a segment of fence. The three escaped into the night.

Stark sat stunned.

Logan sighed, and put a hand on Stark's shoulder. "That's about thirty dead," he said. He took a deep drag on his cigar. "No class, that new guy. No respect for life."

"My God," Stark whispered.

Then it was over. The radio crackled. "Mr. Stark?" said the captain of security. "Do we pursue?"

"No," Stark said. "No, let them go. Inform the police."

"Yes sir."

Stark turned off the monitor, and the three of them were alone.

"Are you... okay?" Peter asked.

Stark winced. "I've recharged the suit," he said, gesturing at the cables plugged into the shoulder vents. "I don't know what shape I'll be in outside it. We'll just have to see. Creed... he's very strong."

"Yeah," Logan said, rubbing his jaw.

"Speaking of which," Peter segued, "what the hell are you doing here, Logan?"

"Oh yeah," Logan said. "Dija like my note?"

"It was great, why did you drag me into this?"   
"Well," Logan said, puffing on his cigar, "Stark tracked me down and invited me. See, I'm what you'd call an expert on Tymaz Nine."

"What _is_ Tymaz Nine?" Peter asked, frustrated.

"Classified," Logan and Stark said in unison. "Anyway," Logan continued, "When Mystique grabbed Tymaz Nine the first time, she ditched it in your car when she made her getaway. Pure accident, but when I saw your picture in Stark's file I knew you'd want to get in on this little shindig. I missed ya," he said, reaching out to ruffle Peter's hair; Peter reflexively moved without thinking.

"Yeah, but who was the furry blue guy?"

"Another friend of mine from way, way back," Logan said. "He wasn't here for _me_, though. His bosses want Tymaz Nine pretty bad."

"So if that was the decoy, where is the real one?" Peter asked, frustration rising.

"I destroyed it," Stark said softly. "I developed a temporary suppressant to counter its symptoms, then I destroyed the samples of the weapon itself."

"That's a nasty joke," Peter said with a grin.

"But not the best punchline of the night," Stark replied enigmatically. "I thank you for your help. How can I reward you?"

"Three things," Peter said. "Forget about me and erase all evidence I was involved in this mess."

"Done," Stark said. "And?"

"You owe me a camera," Peter muttered.

Stark laughed.

**xXx**

Peter and Logan stood outside the front gate to Stark International.

"Thanks, kid," Logan said. "For everything."

"I think we're even," Peter replied. "You've saved my life more than once tonight."

Logan shrugged. "Friends don't keep score, kid."

"Peter," the young man sighed. "Name's Peter."

"Yer so cute," Logan grinned.

"I wish people would quit calling me that," Peter grumbled.

"Well, ya got a good shooter."

Peter looked down at his new camera and smiled. "Yeah. I have a stop to make before I go home, so I'd better get moving."

He started to leave, hesitated. "What are you going to do now?"

"Life's big, kid," Logan said. "Maybe the merchant marine. Always wanted to see the East. Maybe somebody will make me a better offer."

"Stay in touch," Peter said slowly. Logan grinned.

"Git outa here. We'll meet again 'fore you know it. Get in some deep trouble and I'll be bound to show up."

Peter smiled, turned and started walking. Logan watched him go, but he didn't go back inside immediately.

He looked up into the stars, lost in thought. "Take care, kid."

**xXx**

Amy answered the door. "Parker!" she said. "Any idea what time it is?"

"Hey, we're in college, right? I saw lights," Peter said, blowing on his hands. "Mind if I come in?"

"Come on in," Amy said. "MJ, it's the pit crew."

"Ow," Peter said softly. Amy smiled at him and went back in the living room. Mary Jane came out.

"What's up, tiger?" she asked.

"Aunt May wanted me to get pictures of our first date," Peter said with a shrug. "Our camera, well, you know what happened. So, uh, say cheese."

"You're kidding, right?" she said, her eyebrows raised.

Snap.

"Aw c'mon, smile," Peter said. She did. Snap.

"I'm in my sweats," she protested.

"I'll scan the pics into Photoshop and dress you as best I can," Peter said with a grin.

"I don't like where _that_ could go," Mary Jane noted archly.

"Take one of me?" he asked, handing her the camera.

"Amy, why don't you get one of us together?" Mary Jane asked.

"You know, it doesn't matter," Peter said as Amy trudged in. Peter looked into her eyes. "No matter what, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"Good lovey look," Amy said, too bored to sneer. "Very moon eyed." She snapped the shutter. "Can I go?"

"Thanks a million," Peter said quickly. He took the camera, glanced at Mary Jane, and left.

"Loser," Amy muttered, heading back into the living room.

Mary Jane looked after him, and smiled faintly. "Wow," she said.

**xXx**

"So you have plans after this?" Stark asked casually when Logan returned.

"Merchant Marine?" Logan suggested. "I've always wanted to see the East."

"And if I made you a better offer? I could use a man of your caliber."

They exchanged a long look.

Logan grinned.

**xXx**

Fury was waiting for them, the chopper set down in the park. By the time they reached him, none of them needed to limp.

"So?" Fury said, a cigar clenched in his teeth. "Did you get it?"

"No," Creed said shortly. "The blue teleporter got it."

"Yet you got the turncoat," Fury said, his voice cold.

"We never woulda made it out without her," Creed said fiercely.

"This true?" Fury asked Garrett.

"No," Garrett grunted.

"I see," Fury said. "Mystique, you served under Bryant. Didn't get along. You want another shot under me?"

She nodded.

"Then you have it. Probationary. I've read your file. I'm sure I'll be satisfied."

She smiled.

"Okay, Garrett," Fury said. "Let's go."

They piled into the helicopter, and once they were in the air, Fury nodded to the tech that had been waiting for them inside. "Let's see what kind of parts you got from Stark. At least one phase of the mission went the way it was supposed to."

The tech popped Garrett's forearm open. "This arm was replaced, right?"

"Right," Garrett said.

The tech hesitated. "You mean your other arm, right?"

"No, this one."

"What's this?" Fury asked, leaning over.

The parts all bore the insignia of the Project next to Stark International.

"What?" Fury said, his face growing white and his eye flashing with rage. "Stark already took our plans?"

The tech glanced over at him. "We didn't manufacture these, but it's our technology, sir. It's hardly possible, but... he might have figured out how to reverse engineer and replicate these technologies from Garrett's remaining parts when he arrived."

Creed started to laugh, and he laughed almost loud enough to cover Fury's passionate cursing.

**xXx**

Somewhere miles behind, Stark and Logan raised a glass of wine to toast the Project.


End file.
